This is no time to chant coronachs, or for kiss of life.
We have deserted the demons feasting on our injuries.
Our sprit heralds a clutch that smokes our weasand
on a bed of coal. By the nighttime we cover our faces
to profess our madness. Then we hand ski masks
over to our victims dipping their faces in red ochre.
So hear this call, savages! So hear this call, savants!
We have been here before. We broke our skin open
with a feeling of entitlement to suffering. It was a rite
which made us feel whole. Now we are here again at a
picnic we didn’t prepare for, with a pink tarpaulin, waiting
for our next treat a rainbow trout.